


the care and handling of priceless artefacts

by schweet_heart



Series: Merlin Fic [72]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Archaeologists, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Archaeology, Begging, Bondage, Established Relationship, M/M, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Experimentation, inappropriate use of archaeological equipment, remix eligible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-23 15:58:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11993073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/pseuds/schweet_heart
Summary: “I’m pretty sure this is not an appropriate use of archaeological equipment,” Arthur says, watching as Merlin twirls the brush between his fingers.Written for Pornalot 2016, posted as part of Pornalot 2017 Amnesty.





	the care and handling of priceless artefacts

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Orgasm delay/denial, overstimulation, bondage, begging, inappropriate use of archaeological equipment.

 

“I’m pretty sure this is not an appropriate use of archaeological equipment,” Arthur says, watching as Merlin twirls the brush between his fingers. It’s one of his finer ones, the sort he uses to brush sand off the smaller artefacts, and the way Merlin is flourishing it sends a shudder of anticipation low through Arthur’s body. “That stuff is expensive, you know. You might damage it.”  
  
“Shut up, Arthur,” Merlin says, kneeling down between his splayed legs, and Arthur stops talking immediately. “You have enough money to buy a million brushes, so stop worrying. I want to try this.”  
  
Arthur heaves a loud sigh, as though submitting to his boyfriend’s idea of sexual experimentation is a terrible hardship, but he knows Merlin can see right through him because he just snorts and gets started.  
  
The first touch of the bristles against Arthur’s skin doesn’t feel like much, just the soft tickle of a stray hair or the tip of a finger, but as soon as it begins to move, down his exposed stomach towards his languid cock, Arthur can feel the tiny hairs on his body shivering to attention as the nerve-endings come suddenly alive beneath them. Merlin wields the brush with exquisite delicacy, dipping the soft head into the hollow of Arthur’s hips and swirling it around in a seemingly aimless pattern before moving down the seams of his thighs and circling deftly around his balls.  
  
Arthur groans, letting his legs fall even further open, pressing himself into the blankets. There is hardly any pressure, just a ghosting touch, but somehow it seems to focus his attention on the sensation, forcing him to feel it in a way that is completely different from what he had been expecting. Arthur’s hips hitch upwards, his cock filling. He tugs futilely at the soft ropes binding his wrists and ankles, needing something to rub against, but Merlin — who obviously lives solely to torture him — refuses to increase the pressure at all, making tiny flicking motions with the brush along the inside of Arthur’s thighs as though he is excavating something precious.  
  
The bristles comb cross-grained through his pubic hair, and Arthur sucks in a sharp breath. “Fuck, Merlin, are you trying to kill me?”  
  
Merlin smiles, but doesn’t look up.  
  
“Hush,” he says mildly. “I’m working.”  
  
The sound that comes from Arthur’s mouth is something he refuses to categorise, but he suspects it sounds an awful lot like a whine. The tent is close and hot. Sweat trickles down his neck and between his shoulder-blades, pooling in his belly-button and at the base of his spine.  
  
“Merlin.”  
  
Merlin ignores him. The brush sweeps upwards, drawing a long line over his ball-sack and up underneath the hard length of his cock, smearing pre-cum as it circles the head. Arthur’s whole body is trembling with the effort it takes not to thrust, not to chase that infuriating echo the brush leaves behind as it maps him, and he can hear the small, helpless sounds he is making filling the tent and spilling outward into the desert beyond.

“Mer _lin_ ,” he groans again, losing the fight and bucking upwards. Merlin puts a hand on his hip to hold him down and Arthur thinks he might catch fire from the weight of it, his balls contracting with the need to come even as Merlin deprives him of the one thing that will send him over the edge. The maddening stroke of the brush continues up the centre of his torso, flicking playfully at his nipples, which have hardened into tiny, aching nubs. Merlin leans over him, one arm braced at the side of his waist, the heat of his breath prickling across Arthur’s skin. He’s so close, so _close_ , and Arthur needs him, the way his mouth is not-quite-touching Arthur’s chest, his ribs, the join of his thigh; the tight, wet heat of him. “Fuck — fuck, _please_ , I need — just _touch me_ — “  
  
Finally, Merlin gives in and mouths a sideways kiss to his cock, and Arthur moans, gasping his relief. Still, it’s not enough, and he swivels his hips as Merlin withdraws, smudging fluid across his stomach in his attempt to follow. Then the brush is on him again, arousing to the point of agony as it teases against his engorged cock and down underneath his pelvis towards his arse. He throws back his head against the pillows and keens as it plays over his perineum and slips between his cheeks, a stream of curses and begging tumbling from his mouth, until finally Merlin crawls up his body and kisses him silent, gentling him with his long fingers on Arthur’s prick.  
  
“Hush, love, hush,” he whispers, stroking the rigid flesh. Arthur whimpers and presses up into him, and when Merlin’s hand closes around his cock and begins to move that is all it takes for him to lose control entirely.  
  
When Arthur comes, it hits him like a sucker punch, come splattering his stomach and across Merlin’s chest. Merlin takes a little longer, rutting between Arthur’s thighs until Arthur thrusts up against him one more time and he tips over with a cry, slumping onto Arthur’s chest.  
  
He presses a series of small kisses against Arthur’s sweaty collarbone as he unties him, the brush lying forsaken somewhere on the floor where he had thrown it in the moment of abandon. It looks deceptively innocent.  
  
“Jesus Christ,” Arthur blurts, staring up at the sloping ceiling of the tent, his heart still thudding in his chest. “I’ve changed my mind. That is definitely an inappropriate use for archaeological equipment.”  
  
“Mm,” Merlin agrees sleepily. “I’ll order ten of them tomorrow.”


End file.
